Exes, Hexes and Justice
by Antje
Summary: The Pirate Festival is returning to Santa Barbara, despite whispers of its deadly curse. All that crazy talk isn't enough to frighten organizer and somewhat retired psychic detective Shawn Spencer. Just as things get underway, visitors from merry old England start changing Shawn's mind about the havoc of the festival's past, and living in a world of very real piracy.
1. Opening 2006

Notes: A Hot Fuzz/Psych crossover story. Picks up where "Brought to You by Murder" left off. Does not exactly pick up where "Hot Fuzz" left off.  
Summary: The Pirate Festival is back in Santa Barbara.  
Warnings: Swearing, lots of it.  
Pairings: SS/CL, BG/JoH, NA/DB  
Length: TBD (WIP)

-x-

" **The Angels cursed me blind/  
with straight and crooked thinking"**  
(Above and Beyond, "Alone Tonight")

-x-

 **April, 2006  
London, England**

Celebrated actor Callum Quain looked at the email he'd just received on his mobile. Emails were rare for him, anyway, unless it was one of his industry friends letting him know about an event, with a link to a website, or a ha-ha joke of the day that'd somehow missed Quain beforehand. But this email was an email to stop all emails. Quain actually stopped himself, right in the middle of exiting his trailer on the set of an independent motion picture. He stopped to read the message once, feeling his blood get cold. Then, seconds later, he felt his blood get hot, as if he'd fallen into something sweet and forbidden and alluring. In a way, he kind of had.

"Cal," called the assistant director, drawing the heartthrob actor's attention away from the tiny mobile screen long enough to realize that there was a filming schedule to stick to. "Come on, let's go. Just put the mobile down."

The two of them shared an understanding smirk. Cal could put the mobile down, leaving it in the designated chair off-set that had his name painted on the back. He could go on with his work. There were only two days left of filming, anyway. Two days was nothing. And in a few short, short hours, filming would wrap up, and he'd be sitting down at a favored coffee house in Primrose Hill. He'd be with his favorite person in the whole of London, though, perhaps, not exactly the whole world. But to have a person that he liked more than he liked anyone else, more than he liked his exes and he liked his lovers—it still astounded him. He loved his selfishness, loved that he thought the whole of the world revolved around him—and loved that there were a few people—oh so few people—who continued to challenge that imperial belief of his.

He wondered what Nicholas wanted to talk to him about. Maybe Nicholas had finally come to his senses and left Janine—they'd been having difficulties for months, and the end was obviously in sight. Nicholas wasn't the type to air his romantic woes, not with anyone, and certainly not with Britain's hottest tabloid artifact. No doubt the Met's shining constable of a knight would know he was taking a risk meeting with Callum Quain in a public place. Meeting with Callum Quain anywhere was the only seriously _wrong_ thing Nicholas Angel did. So, what was the meaning of it? Why did Angel want to see him?

Callum thought he'd never get to Primrose Hill in time to keep his appointment with Nicholas. He was seven minutes late, thanks to traffic, but was rewarded by the sight of Nicholas in the café. Living up to his surname, Angel was dressed in a white officer's shirt, minus the tie, and the black trousers replaced by well-worn blue jeans. Callum, as usual, was in a state of shock at the sight of Nicholas, a kind of sublimity that seeped from the constable, a toughness and a softness and all the contradictions that Quain had found hopelessly endearing and atrociously formidable throughout their fourteen months as friends. Quain had no delusions, aware that the friendship would've petered out had he not been so persistent, had he not rung Nicholas up repeatedly, had he not insisted that the two of them meet occasionally, often at that same coffeehouse. Nicholas Angel could take and leave his friendships. Callum had an entirely different approach to those he trusted, preferring to yank them in and tie them together, and not do as the pragmatic Angel did by pushing them away to keep his independent strength from melting into a perfectly respectful and altogether human vulnerability.

The belief deepened as Quain took a seat across from Nicholas at their "usual" table by the back window. The place was not crowded, but it was loud with the sounds of industry, with chatter that blended into a roar-like cacophony and melded into bland singer-songwriter music blasted down from strategically-placed speakers. All Callum wanted was for Angel to reach the point.

"Something's wrong with you," Quain observed after they'd imparted the typical grumbled greetings with the typical smack of gripping hands. "I know when there's something wrong with you, Nicholas, try as you do to hide everything."

"I can't hide this," Nicholas started, tore up again by frustration and disgust. To whom was the disgust directed? At the police for their accusations and power? No, that was off the mark. He was still part of them, would always be part of them: to dislike them was to dislike himself, and he couldn't do that. To keep occupied, he moved his almost-empty takeaway cup around on the tabletop, his eyes on it rather than Cal. "I had a meeting today with—with, well—with everybody at the station."

"Finally get your promotion?" He thought there was something else, but perhaps Nicholas was just not as glad about making sergeant as he thought he'd be. Dreams, when finally grasped, were sometimes bitter and gory at first taste. "Good! About damn time. You deserve it."

Nicholas fanned him with a hard gaze. "Yeah, I did get my promotion—in bloody Gloucestershire." Hearing it aloud again, Nicholas skimmed a palm across his face, over his pate of short, gold hair, and left his hand as a fist upon the table. "In Gloucestershire," he repeated at a low tone. He sensed Callum's disbelief. That was exactly where Nicholas had been five hours ago. In a way, he was just rising from the surprise. He'd been stunned. He'd been backstabbed. His thoughts of fitting in with his peers had been completely erroneous. The whole team had wanted him to go away. Hell, the superintendent wanted him to go away. Right then, the manipulative, sardonic and sneaky bastard sitting across from him was probably the only being in all of London that wanted him, Nicholas Angel, around.

Callum landed a hand briefly over Nicholas's fist, but in his imagination he could hear camera lenses of paparazzi snapping, and tucked his arm into his lap. He analyzed Nicholas for a moment, ruminating on wild notions. "Gloucestershire, right? What the fuck's in Gloucestershire?"

"An opening for sergeant at some shit town named Sandford."

Callum's gray-brown eyes, large and soulful and often described as emotional, narrowed in a calculating wince. "Sandford. I've heard of it. Something about it being the best village in the country. It's won that award multiple times."

"There's an award for that?"

They paused in their uniform uncertainty to smirk and snicker.

"Apparently, yeah, there is. Sounds boring as shit, Nicholas. Are you really going to take the job?"

"I haven't got a choice, actually. It's all been decided. It's all been done."

"Oh." Callum ran fingers through the swoop in his thick molasses hair. His eyes scanned Regent's Park Road visible outside the window, knowing that this was going to be one of the worst days of his life. He'd certainly remember it. "I guess that's good, though. You'll get what you wanted. You'll get to be a sergeant. What's better than that?"

"Staying in London and being a sergeant."

"Did they tell you why? Why Gloucestershire?"

"Yeah, they were very upfront about their notion that I'm a saint in a stab-vest making the rest of them look like they can't do their fucking jobs."

Callum tried not to show the amusement he felt. That was very like the Met. "I always said you were aptly named, my dear Angel. If they would get off their lazy asses, and open their eyes to how great you are, they could learn a thing or two. What did Janine say when you told her?"

"I haven't told her yet." Nicholas looked into the takeaway cup, keeping calm. He could be calm now he knew what would happen. He'd known all along that something would come along to snuff out the last embers of his relationship with Janine. If it hadn't been their verbal agreement to see other people—Janine had, but Nicholas had abstained, not intentionally, from pursuing anyone else—it would be an act that twisted up their world, like him getting his promotion in the bloody Cotswolds. He folded his arms as he leaned into the tabletop. "She's processing a scene over in Slough. I'll go over and see her there. Might be easier to talk to her at work rather than—" He cut himself off. Callum picked up where he'd left off.

"Rather than in a coffeehouse that's ironically not that far from a street called Gloucester Avenue."

Nicholas noted the sad side-tilt to Cal's reluctant half-smile.

"Well," started Callum, pausing to breathe, to read nothing into Nicholas deciding to meet with him in person, in relatively intimacy—it was as intimate as Angel got, "I'll continue to be a persistent bastard, Nicholas, and not let our friendship end just because you've left the general vicinity of civilization. Unlike, one must suppose, your relationship with Janine. If she cared about you, she would've never agreed—"

"Yeah, I know," Nicholas ended Callum's insight, "and don't bother, Cal."

"I'm hardly the one to be lecturing you about relationships, or having any kind of closeness with another human being. I'm not that smashing at it myself. I think that's what's drawn me to you all these months. You're a loner, in love with his work. I'd like to be more like that."

"It's not difficult if you find something you love enough."

"Truth is, I love sex more than just about anything. And I very much enjoy doing that with someone else. So—" Cal discontinued, pleased with Nicholas's small chuckles. He sighed, knowing he'd have to say what he wanted to say; he rarely held back anything. "So you'll have to go, but I'll miss you and it'll be painful."

"You'll survive." Nicholas knew what Cal's retort would be. "The Rose Family Curse doesn't exist, and, regardless of how we met, I'm fairly sure you'll be safe here in London without me around." It seemed to really hit him then that he was leaving. He'd been in London for years, and, prior to that, had had no compunctions, no regrets, leaving Kent when finished with university. Why, then, was this turning out to be one of the most painful experiences of his adult life? Was it the betrayal he'd felt on behalf of all at the Met? Was it the finality it would bring his distended end with Janine? What _was_ it, exactly, that was scratching at his soul and making him ache? "With the petulance of a small child, Cal, I do not want to go and I want to hang on to that feeling of not wanting to go. I don't want to go."

"Of course you don't. Who'd want to? With someone of your talent, you should be running the entire Metropolitan Police."

"Yeah, probably. I didn't think the service would be rife with all this back-stabbing and political shit, though. That's not why I became an officer."

"I know," answered Cal softly. He'd heard the tale of Nicholas's history with justice. "You only want to make the world a fair and beautiful place."

"Which makes me wonder what the fuck I'll be able to do in a place like Sandford, Gloucestershire."

"You might be surprised."

And how those four word would haunt Nicholas over the next month, over the next six and a half years. But no more, really, than the last moments he spent with one of his few friends in London, the well-known actor Callum Quain. At least they had something in common: both disliked the Metropolitan Police for personal reasons.

-x-

"You do realize that window was broken from the inside," Nicholas pointed out. In fact, he was entirely unable to help pointing it out to the CSI team buzzing around the crime scene like white plastic bees. He knew he shouldn't have said something the moment Janine tilted her head in that show of exasperation he'd grown familiar with over the last few months. He heard a collective groan from the team, muffled behind their masks. So, Janine was right, after all: Nicholas Angel couldn't switch off. He'd never be able to until he found something or someone that he loved more than he loved his work. He loved his Spathiphyllum, cared for it and kept it alive, loving it only because it depended on him. Janine didn't. Neither did the Met.

In fact, pretty much no one depended on him.

It was as though the last fifteen years of his life, his devotion to reaching his goals and fulfilling his unquenchable desire to bring justice into the aching world, seemed to completely disintegrate.

Pointing out the window was just something he did to stabilize himself. There was always a crime to solve. There was always something going on. Even in Sandford, there'd be something going on.

Janine shoved him out the door and pulled her mask down. Nicholas realized afresh how pretty she was, like the way he would recognize the beauty of a silver screen goddess. A woman untouchable, not for mere mortal fools to adore. He thought again what he'd thought when he first saw her: She'd never love a guy like me.

"Honestly, Nicholas, what do you mean by coming out here and telling me this, now, while I'm at work?"

He felt like saying something childish: _At least you have your job, and someone to shag, and life's all fine and good for you, and you're not being sent to conduct your business in bloody Gloucestershire!_

But he didn't. He held his tongue firmly to the roof of his mouth. He'd be fine in Gloucestershire. He'd be _just fine_. As long as he had his work.

Janine was blasted with a moment's pity. "I'm sure you thought it'd be easier than telling me in private, and perhaps you're right about that. I hope you'll find some contentment at your new position. I'm sure they'll find a use for you. Gloucestershire has good LPAs. A little less modern, I suppose, but you'll modernize it. And there are a couple of female superintendents, if I'm not mistaken."

"You're not. It has. I did some research when I was waiting for—" He stopped, gulped, and watched Janine tilt her head again.

"Meet up with him, did you?"

"I thought he should be told. He relies on me being in London."

"He's a cocky shithead that's in love with your power, Nicholas."

"At least someone out there recognizes what I'm capable of—and noticing me for _me_. As if there is such a difference between the two things, anyway: me and my position. If your theory is to be believed, that is."

"You are your work. You will always be your work. Tell me, at least, was he heartbroken, losing the object of his affection to the sheep and peasants?"

"I am not _always_ my work," he grumbled, now getting angrier, and the angrier he got the more his eyes sparkled, and the more his eyes sparkled the pinker his face turned. Janine was enjoying the show. Talking about Callum Quain lit fireworks in Nicholas like nothing else could. "And he took it fine, thanks. He was grownup about it. Supportive, even."

"Well, what a refreshing change of pace! I'm surprised he didn't throw a tantrum and offer to pay off someone at the Met to keep you at your station for all eternity."

Nicholas opened and closed his mouth, unable to form a witty riposte. He couldn't even form a dull riposte. He couldn't form anything at all.

"He'll probably follow you out there in a little while, you know," Janine went on to say. "I could see him taking to a campestral life for the sake of following after you like a devoted puppy dog. He is madly in love with you, after all. But, unlike me, Callum Quain has the myopic belief that he'll be able to change you, that he'll be able to make you fall in love with something besides work, id est: _him_."

"He's an idiot," Nicholas clarified. "And he won't follow me to Gloucestershire. At all. Ever. And he's _not_ in love with me."

Janine put her mask back in place, ready to finish up the job inside the broken home. It carried a strange synonym to her life with Nicholas: shattered, smashed, irreparable, a bloody mess. "You might be surprised, Nicholas."

-x-

 **April, 2006**  
 **Cleveland, Ohio**

Shawn Spencer knew what would happen when he opened his eyes to face the morning. He'd have to understand the responsibilities that'd fallen upon him. He'd have to find some way to repair everything. Exactly how that was going to happen, he wasn't sure. But everyone in the High Niagara Theater Company was depending on him. Not that they were going to _say_ that, of course. It was just a sensation in the air. It was even more than that: it was a hot miasma.

In the big, cushiony bed of his temporary digs, Shawn rolled over to his back, being sure that his eyes stayed shut. The act was helped along by the remainders of a sinus infection so awful that mucus had infiltrated his eyeballs, it having nowhere else to go. It left his eyes snotty overnight, practically glued shut by sunrise. If he hadn't been moved to the chorus for the last three days, thanks to that illness, he wouldn't have had the time to look into the accusations against Shannon Ross, their beloved director.

There was just no way that Shannon Ross had killed Tansy Corrigan.

The whole problem was trying to convince the Cleveland Police Department of Shannon's innocence. Detectives Spilsbury and O'Donnell were hard-edge cops. They didn't want to listen to the opinions of outsiders, someone like Shawn Spencer—a mere actor (among other things). The truth was, Spilsbury and O'Donnell reminded Shawn of his own father. So much so that Shawn had resisted all temptations to call his dad and gather crime-solving advice. But the last thing Henry Spencer would want is his son poking his overlarge nose were it didn't belong.

So Shawn forwent outside assistance and paternal guidance. He was on the verge of cracking the case. All that was missing was that one final clue that would draw everything together.

He was pretty sure it had something to do with that red hoodie found in the women's dressing room, the scene of the homicide. Too large for Tansy's slight frame. Too small for the rotund Shannon. Whose was it? No one in the company had ever worn a red hoodie, not against the unpredictable and cheeky spring weather of east-side Cleveland. The police insisted that the hoodie had been there for ages, probably left behind by the previous company that'd passed through the Skylark Theater. The hoodie wasn't of interest to them. In fact, given that Tansy had no family that cared about her, only the company, they didn't seem particularly interested in solving the case.

Well, Shawn was sure they were interested in solving the case. Just not with the expediency one would wish. Tansy was still someone's daughter, someone's friend.

While Shawn might lack the dashing good looks and ease of cinematic heartthrobs, he had charisma, he had charm, and he had a nearly eidetic memory which made learning his lines a piece of cake. And he had an eye for the mysterious, the playful; he unlocked the possibilities of every situation. He was thirty years old, free from restraints and existing exactly as he'd always meant to: living each day as if it was the only one he'd ever get. Fellow cast-mate and chum Tansy Corrigan hadn't needed to die to remind him of life's uncertainties. Getting the most out of a situation was something Shawn Spencer did best. Opportunities were seized. Chances grabbed. Moments made.

Despite a repertoire of fine personal achievements and a Wunderkammer of tools to obtain exactly what he wanted, Shawn's efforts to get close to the detectives had failed.

Except the one avenue that opened up to him. Almost, you know, _literally_. But putting it that way was kind of gross, once in context.

"Hey, Shawn, are you sleeping?"

Shawn's eyebrows twitched in response. He refused to lift the lids off his eyes. Anyway, his left one was all gummy and vile, and he was pretty sure it would refuse to open without first being rinsed. "No, I quit sleeping a while ago. It got boring."

The warm chuckle ended in a brush of lips against Shawn's cool shoulder. "Good. How are you feeling?"

For the most part, Shawn felt all right. He felt a little cheap, if he analyzed himself too much, but that was what happened when he (repeatedly) tumbled into bed with someone to get what he wanted. But what was he supposed to do when faced with O'Donnell's adorable brother-in-law? Who just happened to be in a production of The Music Man at the Regent, down the road from the Skylark? And both companies frequented the same bar, smack dab in the middle of both theaters. It was kismet. Better than, because the twenty-two-year-old Riley Rack made the first of many moves toward Shawn Spencer. Riley had first seen Shawn at the police station, and, like magic, that same evening he locked eyes on him across the crowded bar. It was the stuff of Cole Porter songs. Shawn considered it good luck. He almost considered it spiritual interference from Tansy Corrigan that he should meet the boy wonder known as "the Regent's Riley." Riley, who was Shawn's "in" at the station. Riley, who was going off to London next month to begin filming a romantic comedy, such as the British could do. Riley acted with exquisite naturalness, and kissed like an angel, and loved like a great fool—which is exactly how one should love.

Shawn huffed and patted the arm that wrapped around his chest. He kind of liked Riley Rack. (Real name: Jackson Riley Raccagnelli.) Then again, he "kind of liked" the people he went to bed with. Riley was different. He was made of talent, spice and sense. A welcome combination.

"Shawn?"

"H'mm?"

"Is your eye all glued up with eye snot again this morning?"

"That it is, my lovely inamorato. That it is. Which is a shame. I'd like to actually look at you again. But that would mean getting out bed, going to the sink—and I need to prioritize."

"I'll get you a damp washcloth. Don't want you to pull out eyelashes or anything."

Shawn dared open his good, less-gooey eye to glance at Riley's form in the steely morning light. It was a solid reminder that it was all very real, very dimensional. Riley rushed back, flopped upon the bed and started running the warm washcloth over Shawn's eye with a gentle touch. The cloth smelled clean. Riley smelled human. Shawn caught the scent of a city morning: dew-drenched weeds in craggy alleys, diesel engines, wet concrete.

"Did I get it all? Can you see now, Amazing Grace?"

Shawn tested his eye, blinking it, pulling off a couple eye boogers from his lashes. He beheld Riley, his sky-blue eyes and full head of dark brown hair. It was a sight to wake up to.

"Hi, gorgeous," Riley said, smiling. He wiped the rest of Shawn's face. He used a fingertip to remove a particularly stubborn eye booger that kept sticking to Shawn's cheek, and raced in to bless the spot with a lick and kiss.

"Thank you," Shawn said, cuddling close to him, "I feel way more like me now. And thank you for not being grossed out by my grossness."

"It's not an issue. If your pores oozed snot, I'd take care of you then, too. I like taking care of you."

"Then we should probably take care of each other this morning and get a good breakfast before we mosey off to our respective rehearsals. It's your last performance as Harold Hill. And I'm almost done with Frederic in _Penzance_. It'll be weird, all this moving-on."

Shawn recognized the stillness that came between them. It was one of those profound moments that people stumbled into without knowing it. Tingles exploded in Shawn's hands, whipped up the rate of his heart.

"Oh, God, what? What are you thinking?"

Because they might've known one another only a week, but they could read one another as easily as they read _Our Town_. There wasn't much to it. It was simple. Layered, but simple. Shawn threaded his fingers through Riley's, waiting for the moment Riley would tell him.

"I know you love the company," started Riley, looking once at Shawn, looking away again. It wasn't as though he hadn't rehearsed this in his head before. He felt like he had a hundred times, but, practically speaking, it couldn't have been more than a dozen. But as an actor since the age of seven, Riley liked to have his lines known by rote, and some he learned by heart. "And I like the fact that you have this seriously aloof attachment to the theater and everything, and that's made me wonder, and kind of hope—and of course you can say no if you want, I mean, I'd expect you to since it's last-minute and we haven't known each other that long, but I thought that—if you wanted to—you could … come with me."

Shawn stared at him. Definitely one of those profound moments in life worth waiting for. There was a phrase he'd read in an article recently, "a place of sombre shadows…" that described the sensations enveloping him, filling the gap between them. "You want me to go to London with you?"

"Yeah," Riley tugged at their hands, "I want you to come to London with me. You can think about it."

What was to think about? Aside from a few jokes he could make to keep the mood light. "Well, I'm not sure anyone's going to let me out of the country, first of all. And I'm not sure I can handle all the love and attention you'll be getting when English lads get a taste of you."

"Taste?" Riley repeated the tricky word.

"Look," amended Shawn. "Did I say taste? I meant look. I really need to learn how to use my words. And of course I'll go with you."

Shawn saw then one of the things he liked best, and would always love best, about Riley Rack: he lit up within, exploding with the essence of light and happiness.

It was snuffed a bit when Riley's phone rang. Shawn could tell a serious conversation went on, the way Riley became subdued, the way his eyes snapped. Riley ended the call and wasted no time filling Shawn in.

"That was my sister."

Shawn nodded. Detective O'Donnell's wife. "What'd she say?"

"The D.A. told them that they have enough evidence to bring charges against Shannon—and make them stick."

This was startling news. Sure, Shannon lacked a decent alibi, and there witnesses who placed him near the theater at the time of Tansy's death. But he was the director: all his time was spent at the theater. How was that evidence of his guilt?

Riley's hand coasted down Shawn's face. "I told you it'd be bad. You know the D.A.'s cousin is one of the investors in the Skylark. Without him, it would've been rubble under the wrecking ball in 1988. He wants a conviction. That's all he wants. I'm sure if there's a way to convince them that Shannon's innocent, you'll find a way. You're good at this sort of thing. You said your dad was a cop, right? That he used to train you when you were a kid so you'd know how to solve crimes. Well—solve this one. And, when you do, we'll get out of here. We'll be off to merry old England, land of Shakespeare, Colin Firth's shield of chest hair, Tony Blair's bland ties, and food with funny names, like spotted dick."

"I think Colin Firth actually lives in Rome, honey. And spotted dick is a pudding with currants. I had it once."

"Just once, huh? With your worldly expertise, darling, I rather doubt it was just once," countered Riley. "And I love that you know stupid shit like that. Now, what do you say? Want to scrounge up some bangers and mash for breakfast, and catch a killer as a dessert?"

Riley pulled out his posh Oxford accent. It needed a good airing, anyway. He wanted to have it as second-nature by the time they landed at Heathrow. He drew in a deep breath, watching Shawn tug on his clothes. It sounded nicer in his head to say "when _we_ land at Heathrow" rather than "when _I_ land at Heathrow." It seemed almost too good to be true that Shawn was going with him. Whether Shawn liked it or not, and Riley guessed that he didn't, Shawn really was the kind of person a man wanted to find waiting for him at home. Riley spooned his clothes off the floor—he wasn't tidy and neither was Shawn—and started for the bathroom to rinse his body off quickly. He stopped when Shawn spoke.

"You know, I think Elliot Ness had to put up with this kind of political interference, too, when he was here in the 1930s. I think there was something awkward and nepotistic about the whole Torso Murders that made a conviction of the killer impossible."

Riley stalled, considering this. Shawn was right. There was a lot of politics in the police service. "I love you, Shawn, and you know that I mean it when I tell you that it's a damn good thing you never became a cop. It would've driven you bonkers, and not in a good way."

"Huh!" Shawn attacked the naked Riley with hugging arms and playful, little bites that ended in a long kiss. Shawn finally forced them apart. He rubbed his goopy eye, looking for the box of tissues rather than considering the deepness of his next statement. "You might be surprised, my inamorato. You might be plenty surprised."


	2. Chapters 1 and 2

1\. Rum Ready

Shawn was only too glad to climb off the Norton and head into the shady respite that was the first of two barns. As soon as he was the lone human between rows of horse-filled stalls, he felt his shoulders slump downwards, his blood cool by several degrees, as if he were part vampire—and the nonstop rush of the last two hours transformed into a harmless memory.

Not that he expected this sensation happened to everyone when he showed up at work. Just a select few.

Although he was beginning to understand why Lassie hugged him a whole lot longer than he used to. Why they spent a little extra time in the morning, lingering over coffee, tea and toast, talking to one another about all the sundry topics that they deemed relevant and worthy. Why their focus shifted to Hank as soon as he was prepared to face the day. Why Lassie said the other night, "I think if you were gone, the heart and light would go out of everything." Because Shawn was the rowdy and provoking one. If he didn't make Lassie and Hank laugh at least once during those ninety-minute mornings, his day always felt a bit off. He enjoyed being the heart and the light of their odd, little (very little) happy home on Sunberry Lane.

But sometimes a guy just wanted to sift horse shit from sawdust, too. And that was perfectly all right.

The patterns of the morning hardly varied. He checked in with coworker and co-manager Tina Athens. If another menial underling was there to fling around horse poo, all the better for Shawn: he could get some paperwork filed. If not, then he took the horses out and cleaned—and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned!

His dad, who thought Shawn would get sick of the horses a week after taking the job at the Country Club, remained tactful whenever Shawn talked about how much he loved his job. His actual job. Not the "I write astrology essays for the fun of it" gig—which was also an acceptable pastime. But Henry Spencer wasn't as keen on Astrology Shawn as he was on Stable Manager (ahem, Co-Manager) Shawn. The fact that Shawn still worked there amazed Henry. It went so far as to shock Shawn's mom, too. "You're still there?" she'd said last time they'd chatted on FaceTime. Though Shawn suspected she was chatting only to talk to Lassie and Hank—but Shawn had ceased to take this personally. "That's the longest you've been been at a single job since—well, I don't remember when! Since you and Gus started Psych." After everyone in Shawn's inner circle of friends had made this observation, Shawn ceased all and every explanation. He liked his job(s). The end.

True, Shawn had taken the job to help with a case. He'd even liked his former boss, Waylon Scobie, at least up until the point that Shawn figured out that Scobie was behind a few murders, stretching back numerous decades (yup, that's right: DECADES). And then Scobie had gotten shot just after hitting Shawn with three bullets. The guy's death shifted the dynamics of the country club so enormously that Shawn found himself exactly where he wanted to be. Everything came together. Granted, he required an enormous amount of recovery time after nearly bleeding to death. Once that was out of the way, then he was happy enough to whistle while he worked.

Until he caught himself whistling the Scène piece from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake.

He tried to switch it to something that didn't involve ballet. But it seemed that his mind was attuned to the classical, and he could hardly think of anything that wasn't associated with Hank's dance classes, or Sunday mornings when Lassie would read the newspaper and have the television's music station tuned to Wondrous Masterpieces of the Baroque Period. And Hank would be close by, alternating his homework with stretches that made Shawn and Carlton cringe…

Actually, the classical wasn't so bad. He went back to whistling Swan Lake.

"I never thought of you as a Tchaikovsky person," said a calm male voice from the stable doorway.

Shawn smiled at the silhouette. The fluffy black-gray hair and stout, squarish figure shone a light on Tim Westcott's mysterious arrival. It seemed like Shawn only ever caught sight of Tim in a shadow. The two had hardly seen one another since last August. A lot had gone on in eight months.

Shawn set rake and gloves aside, shook Tim's hand with a sincere warmth. He wiped his hand on his jeans. "Your hand is really warm and moist, dude. But it's a good sign that you're still alive."

"Always pleasant to know," Tim started. He smiled at Shawn's affable, frank face. "I came out for a ride, hoping to find you here."

"Here I am! Knees covered in horse crap, sweat dripping down my back—and happy as hell."

"That explains the whistling—but not the Tchaikovsky."

"That's purely Hank's fault. We listen to a lot more ancient music written by guys in wigs than we used to, but it's cool."

Shawn let Tim ask him a couple more questions about Hank, how he was getting on at school, balancing school and his obsession with dance… Tim, like everyone else, really wanted to know what it was like being around Hank, and what Hank really thought of his grandmother and father still sitting in jail for the crime they'd committed. Shawn never really knew what to say. Even at family counseling sessions—an absolute requisite for him and Carlton and Hank—Shawn didn't say much of anything. So when it came to taking care of Hank, Shawn stepped in for all the fun and academic help that Hank needed, and Carlton, bless him, took all the emotional crap—because Shawn was so unsure of his feelings that he couldn't even hold on to them long enough to define them, let alone express them. Though he fiercely loved Carlton and Hank, and loved being part of their lives, Shawn felt that his best contributions came during those ninety-minute morning blears of life.

But Shawn hadn't known Tim Westcott for more than a year just to get invited to all the swanky galas around town. (That was just a perquisite.) Shawn learned to read Tim like a roadmap. He had his own tells, too—like Carlton pulling at his ear when he was indecisive, or Hank twisting his fingers on his left hand when he downplayed how much he wanted whatever it was he was asking for… Shawn, a salaried employee, felt he had all the time that morning to wait for Tim to get around to his point. Eventually, he did.

"It's going to be out in the press tomorrow," Tim started, and Shawn had a terrible time deciding if this was something good or something bad. Tim was one of those characters that didn't exhibit every emotion. "But the Council has decided to let the Pirate Festival go on this summer, after all."

Shawn winced in a reaction to this. He'd heard about it… From who? Gus, maybe. Or Dennis? No, it must've been Dennis. Dennis was the only friend he had that was so geeky that he'd know about the Pirate Festival ahead of everyone else. "Ah-ha, I see. You're not sure about it?"

"Oh, no—no, I think it'll be—interesting."

"You almost said fun," teased Shawn. "Admit it. You almost said it'd be fun!"

Tim's chuckles were soft and afraid of themselves. "Yeah, all right, it might be pretty fun. The festival hasn't been around since the debacle of 1963. It rained for seven straight days—"

"Sounds Biblical," quipped Shawn.

"Flooded everything. There was mud everywhere." Tim waved a defensive hand. "I wasn't alive back then or anything—just a glint in my parents' eye—but my dad—well, I heard a lot of stories. And being at the council meetings, I saw a lot of the visual history of it, too. Mainly used to demonstrate why there shouldn't be another Pirate Festival."

"I suppose with your unflagging sense of authority and with your fingers on the zeitgeist of the city, you've been asked to take some really profound and irreplaceable position within the festival's team."

Tim cracked a sarcastic smile. "I'm now the head of the festival's team."

Shawn wasn't the least bit surprised. Tim had taken the Hayworth House and turned it into a museum, and done it without a flaw, impressing thousands in the process. "See, I knew you were going to say that."

"Oh, please! Don't play psychic with me!"

Shawn laughed awkwardly, too. "Okay, then—I won't! So, when are you going to tell me what it is you want me to do for the festival?"

Tim gaped at him. Really, how did Shawn Spencer do that? It was unnerving. "First, I just wanted to see if you were interested. I know you've got a lot going on right now. Aren't you—don't you still have that whole wedding thing going on?"

Shawn's throat always tightened involuntarily whenever someone mentioned wedding stuff. "Um, well—it's a work in progress. No, I'm serious. It is. It's just a slow process. Turtles, actually, plan their weddings faster than Lassie and I do. So I have a lot of free time—aside from working—shuffling Hank here and there. But the Pirate Festival—that's a once in a lifetime thing."

"So's a wedding—ideally. But depending on how well it goes, yeah, the festival really might turn out to be a once in a lifetime thing. Why don't you just start coming to the meetings with the other team members, and if there are too many conflicts—it's not a big deal—there's no commitment."

"But there's pirates," Shawn said, putting his gloves back on as he sensed Tim had reached the end of his visit. "And I think I've waited my whole life to fill Santa Barbara up with as many pirates as possible."

Tim shook his head, laughing at Shawn's easy admittance to youthful wishes. "I'll email the team meeting itinerary to you—when I've actually finished writing it. But I really am going to take a ride. Want to ride out with me?"

"Nah, I can't. Have to finish what I can here so I can meet Carlton for lunch. But I can get Betsy ready for you."

Shawn had been looking forward to dashing back home for afternoon break. It was the only time he and Carlton had to "explore their adult nature," as their therapist had once expressed it. The euphemistic phrase still made Shawn smile, and any time he and Lassie referred to sex, it was as "adult nature time." But that's why Carlton had started taking hour-long lunch breaks, and why Shawn had requested hour-long lunch breaks. It was important that they stay connected on a physical level. It helped balance the still-uncertain emotional level.

As soon as he zoomed in through the back door of home—glorious, glorious home, the first thing on Shawn's mind wasn't how fast he could get Lassie out of his clothes, only the thought of spilling the news about the Pirate Festival. It seemed fairly mundane compared to the hefty kiss Lassie greeted him with.

"Long morning at the station?" Shawn managed to get the words out as comprehensibly as his catching breath allowed. Occasionally, Lassie would wish he'd stay quiet—and sometimes even found means of keeping Shawn quiet. Shawn had grown used to the taste of Lassie's silk ties.

"Really long morning," Carlton said, rising up and over Shawn for a second, then leaving kisses over Shawn's neck again.

Shawn exhaled a good-bad kind of shudder. Lassie always knew where to put everything so that it made the largest impact… And it was quickly turning into one of those bedroom excursions that almost succeeded in scaring Shawn away from sex FOREVER. (Or—well, you know, almost forever.) He started to lose track of himself, like he was falling away from his own existence and turning into a Neanderthal, and Lassie started to feel like a stranger—or it was Shawn himself who started to turn into a stranger. Not that it didn't feel good in every pore of his being—but it was a bit frightening to be so loved and so taken away from yourself.

"Pirates."

Shawn couldn't believe he'd just said that. But Lassie had conversed first, and it was only fair… Carlton couldn't expect that Shawn Spencer wouldn't blurt out seemingly random words during their bedroom sessions.

Carlton stopped moving and looked down at Shawn. "Did you just say—"

"Pirates, yes. I did. I'm sorry. It was out there before I could stop myself, or turn it into some other sexy-sounding word that begins with P. There are so many to choose from. Instead, I go with pirates." Shawn contorted his face into an expression of embarrassment and discomfort. He didn't mind his position. He far from minded Lassie's position, and even squirmed a little to help continue their shenanigans. "Let's just forget I said that."

"Were you having out-of-body experiences again?"

Said because that was the best way that Shawn had been able to describe his sensations of remoteness during their crazy sex times. Shawn was usually the only one who was crazy, though. Lassie had his moments.

"Just little baby ones," Shawn replied. "I was trying not to. And I was really enjoying what you were doing. I was. It's just—sometimes it's not enough. And I got weirded out by the smell. What is that smell?"

Carlton sighed, slithering out of Shawn and lowering himself to rest his head on Shawn's abdomen. "It's that new stuff I bought. I don't like it, either, if that helps. It smells kind of like—like—"

"Like girls."

Carlton's laugh brightened the mood. "Yeah, right, it smells like girls." He kissed Shawn's navel, left a nibble at Shawn's pelvis. "Why pirates, though?"

At last, Shawn got to expound on his meeting with Tim, dish the news about the upcoming festival, and how he'd been invited into what he called the Council of Tortuga. "If I can make time for it, I will. If I can't, I won't. Not a big deal." He slanted his hand through Carlton's hair, still more dark than white, softer and sleeker than it looked. "I'm sorry about the failure of our adult nature time."

"We still have forty minutes," argued Carlton. "I'm not worried. If you think you can make the time for the meetings of this festival thing, I want you to do it. We'll need some talks about time scheduling, anyway, and what happens when Hank's out of school for summer. We're going to have to change around our sex schedule."

A few years ago, it might've pained Carlton to say aloud the phrase _Sex Schedule_. With Shawn, though, he learned that he had very little to be embarrassed about. What he had with Shawn, very few comprehended, and even fewer ever actually knew.

"Well, if you weren't so loud, we could totally sneak into the video room at the station," Shawn teased. "But I know you like it loud. You manly beast, you."

Carlton got only one more kiss from Shawn before he was stopped again.

"You really think I can do this? Me? I'm not the most responsible person in the world. I don't know how well I can handle being part of a team that's in charge of a whole festival." Shawn's eyes glistened as he thought about it. Responsibility? What'd that matter, if the source was something he loved? "Pirates, though, Lass. A pirate festival. It'll be like the Renaissance Fair, but with rum and Toby Stephens. Oh! Toby Stephens! Maybe he can come—and maybe the whole _Black Sails_ crew can come for, like, a panel discussion thing! Let me put this in my phone before I forget!"

Shawn's phone was taken out of his hand, tossed by Lassiter into a pile of clothes on the floor. His hands were clasped and pinned against the mattress.

"I'll remind you," Carlton said, watching as Shawn's expression changed from confounded to euphoric when he maneuvered nicely, "but later—much later."

Shawn sank into the pillows, grabbing Lassie at the waist. "Much, much later."

-x-

 **"It was a great experience […]  
a bunch of kids playing on pirate ships and water slides ****[…]  
It was the fondest experience of my childhood."**

Corey Feldman, talking about filming _The Goonies_

2\. The Council of Tortuga

The cottage smelled strongly of one thing: the clear aroma of home. A rich, loamy kind of smell; the air cured by plants and the good cleaning they'd done before heading away on a mini-break at the weekend. Nicholas enjoyed returning to a house that not only welcomed him with its purified freshness, its nostalgic scents wafting to his nostrils and mingling with the breeze wending peacefully through the door behind him, but glad to be back for the sheer sake of it. Sometimes one had to get home to rest from a holiday.

Beginning to unleash himself from his red polo shirt, intending to head for a long, hot shower, more of the relaxing variety than then cleansing variety, Nicholas wadded the cotton under one arm, using the other to reach for the handles of the bag still clenched in the puffy hand of a very distracted Danny Butterman. Danny released his attention from Friday's newspaper long enough to realize Nicholas was taking the luggage.

"Did you see this, Nicholas?" Danny winced against the glare of Gloucestershire sunshine on semi-bleached newsprint, his ancient aviator sunglasses sitting uselessly atop his black and white-smattered hair. The leads were very bold, however, and didn't require false correction of farsightedness. "It's gone and gotten on the front page, even after you expressly told them not to publish a bloody word!" Danny had the decorum to look appalled on Nicholas's behalf. He shook the paper Nicholas's direction, trying to draw attention to it. "Look at it! I swear, I'm not making this up!"

Nicholas let his eyes graze the headlines, but decided he wouldn't do anything about it. What could he do about the press? Very little. And although the Sandford paper had seen improvements over the years, the improvements were not consistent; the paper's quality tended to waver from issue to issue. All the chief of the Sandford Constabulary had told the latest editor, Eliza Waters-Darling, was to leave the announcement of the Dramatics Society's news until the Dramatics Society was ready to tell it. That wasn't good enough for Waters-Darling. Sense usually wasn't.

Nicholas had the cotton bundle of his polo shirt and the handle of the bag in one hand, now using the other to guide Danny into the cool, shaded recess of the cottage foyer. Danny's eyes remained glued to the paper, but he wasn't completely oblivious to Nicholas's sleek, nude torso going by the corner of his eye. He glanced at it, furtively, as if afraid of getting caught, then continued to feast on words rather than Nicholas's body. Words were often easier to comprehend.

"Nicholas," Danny cooed, leaning against the foyer wall, too tired from the drive home to be arsed walking to the sofa, "did you know about this? I know you told me about it and all, but just enough that you said the paper wouldn't be printing anything that you told them not to. They did that anyway. Bastards. Did you know he was really going to take over the Dramatics Society?"

Nicholas couldn't pretend. He knew Danny had seen him on the phone at the station frequently throughout the last week. Danny, a bit of the jealous type, endearingly so, thought Nicholas had a significant someone he was chatting up on the phone every chance he got. Nicholas hadn't answered Danny's sour-faced queries about the long conversations that dotted the last fortnight, and now Nicholas wondered if Danny had figured it out. He could almost see the pieces of the puzzle lining up in Danny's mind. When it hit, it hit Nicholas, too, with smacks of pride and a hint of strangulation at his ribs that he couldn't identify as either indigestion or lust.

"That's who you were on the phone with all them times, wasn't it! You were on the phone with Callum Quain! That's just—but! I mean—it can't be true! Callum Quain, Nicholas!"

Its possibility varied, just as Nicholas's expression was positively unvaried. Danny squashed his sense of disappointment.

"You mean, that weren't who were speaking to all them times? It weren't Callum Quain?" He quivered a bit, still disappointed in himself, when Nicholas shifted by him in the small, square foyer, touched along the walls by tiny knickknacks on rickety little wooden shelves, and frames of ancient days depicting dried flowers in symmetrical arrangements. The inside of Nicholas's foot pulled the door from its inward spot, but his hands pushed it against the jamb. All the light went out, and Danny couldn't see Nicholas's eyes for a moment, just stood still and let the two of them be close in a very close space. Danny got a pat on his cheek and nothing else. This business of being heterosexual life partners was getting a bit prickly and kind of dull, Callum Quain notwithstanding.

Danny's shoulders dropped. "Nicholas, really now, don't you be lying to me."

There came a short-lived half-sneer accompanied by a quiet little snort. "Of course I was chatting with him. Who'd you think?"

Danny remained his curious self, unpinning his torso from the wall and blindly descending the single step into the cottage's main lounge. He regarded the paper again, Nicholas opening the curtains at the front window, soon followed by the window itself. "But him! Here, in Sandford! What'd he call you about? Wanting to see if it was the safest and most boring village in the country? I mean, you could hardly assure him of that more than the rest of the world's been all assured of it, yeah? What'd he say when he called? How'd you get him to talk to you in the first place?"

"He rang me up," Nicholas averred, feeling no reason to prevaricate. After all, he trusted Danny with is life, and even things more precious than his life. At last, he grabbed the newspaper from Danny and skimmed the headlines. "This is total rubbish. All they're doing is guessing. Good. They've received no confirmation. Quain came to town last month, spent one night, and they're thinking it's him that's taking over the Dramatics Society."

"But it is him, isn't it?"

"That's not the point. You know something? I've had it up to my eyeballs with journalists."

Danny scrunched the paper and tossed it to the tidy cocktail table with neatly stacked magazines in themes of cinema and firearms. Home sweet home! "Can't have that. I like your eyes. They're a very decent and pretty part of you. Which reminds me, would you mind putting a shirt on now? You're making me cold just looking at you. You're all—at attention." He was far from cold; actually becoming the opposite of cold. He gave a meek point to Nicholas's nipples. The two round bits of pink flesh were hardened by the cool cross-breeze from front and rear windows. Danny's finger tucked shyly back into a fist. "What'd you take it off for, anyway? Sick of the smell of the moor? I kind of like it." He lifted the collar of his shirt and made a great show of sniffing it and relishing in it. He tried not to cough at the dust and pollen that entered his nostrils. Nicholas smelled better. They'd been down to the moor and down to the seaside, and had had a marvelous time. No being police officers. No answering to anyone or anything. Even Nicholas had been able to turn off his Officer's Brain for a while, marveling Danny by his silence as he toasted himself in the sun on the beach, though there was a heated domestic argument going on within earshot and within eyesight. He didn't even flutter an eyelash when Danny mentioned espying a raggedy youth that appeared to be pickpocketing. Nicholas had remained reposed. Maybe it was the impending arrival of Callum Quain to Sandford that had relaxed Chief Inspector Nicholas Angel. Danny swallowed hard, remembering that he'd heard a fair bit of rumors about the actor's, er, _predilections_.

But Nicholas wouldn't—not really, not seriously. Would he?

"I was going to take a shower," Nicholas said, collapsing to the sofa and liking the feel of its pale champagne pseudo-suede fabric against his naked back. He rested for a moment, drawing into his mind memories of the sea, particularly at night when they walked back from a pub tour, the way the tide whispered beneath Danny's breathing and mindless nattering, and the way the tops glistened as it reached for the moon, for the stars.

He flung open his eyes, crossing one ankle over his knee to take off his shoe by carefully undoing the laces. "Did you make sure everything was out of the car?"

"No," Danny said, realizing he sounded maudlin as well as disappointed, "I'll go and do that, make sure we got everything. Remember when we left them half-eaten Curly Wurlys in the car, coming back from our last trip? That was a mess to clean up."

"Probably best to be sure all Curly Wurlys are accounted for. And I'll shower."

"I'll make us some tea and toast."

"Sounds good."

It did sound good. Danny made toast and tea often enough, usually when they came home from an excursion somewhere—Wareham for a visit with some of Danny's old school chums, or out to one of the parks for a visit during an off-day. Though they'd lived together for six years, a decision that they would've been blind not to see shocked Sandford into little ripples of awareness and gossip, the mini-break they'd returned from was the first time the two of them had ever gone anywhere together with the pure intent of staying overnight. They'd spent a harrowing and boring evening at Danny's friend's house in Wareham because Danny had become overly intoxicated, puked and passed out before Nicholas was able to get him into the car. Nicholas needed a holiday, and Danny was the only one companionable enough to take a holiday with. Everyday was a holiday to Danny—practically. He lived with joy. Nicholas lived with work smeared by joy. Far more of it since Danny had moved in. And that wasn't a difficult decision, not one made loudly but almost silently. Danny had hardly unpacked at his flat, anyway, only his movies and a few of his clothes. Shifting the boxes from one end of town to the other, well, that took only a few of their friends, a couple of pizzas, a few ciders from the shop.

Strange, how easy some transitions were.

Nicholas picked up the discarded, crumpled paper and read a few lines. Callum Quain was on his way to Sandford to reign over the Dramatics Society. "May he have better luck," the paper stated with the tongue-and-cheek attitude readers expected from Molly Rocker, the paper's most decorated writer (Nicholas had always been hesitant to call her a journalist). The Society had certainly encountered their fair share of bad luck through the years, starting in 2007 and fairly non-stop until they decided to shut the organization down in 2012. Now, through a series of coincidences, if there were such things, Callum Quain was coming to Sandford, riding on the coattails of his father's success and his step-mother's glory, to resurrect the Dramatics Society.

Danny came back from the car, holding his mobile in his hand and nothing else; they'd emptied the car properly of all potentially problematic viands. He was startled to see Nicholas still seated on the sofa, only one shoe off. It wasn't like Nicholas to get distracted from a task, especially when distracted by the newspaper. What was going on? A fire burned in his heart, and he kicked it back to cinders. He'd know if his speculations and judgments were founded when Callum Quain and Nicholas Angel met in person, if they hadn't already. Maybe they had. Quain had spent the majority of his career in London, hadn't he? What was to stop a good-looking guy like that from taking to a heroic Met police officer? Danny returned his gaze to the mobile screen, getting no read off Nicholas—as if that should be surprising.

"I was looking up Quain on IMDB," Danny said, sitting with Nicholas on the sofa. They'd been sitting next to one another the whole weekend. At night, after work, after stops at the pub with compeers and friends, they sat next to one another and watched the news, or a comedy, or an action movie before going up the narrow staircase, yawning, drifting in and out of conversation as they brushed their teeth, and then retired to the silence of adjacent but separate bedrooms. "Did you know Quain ain't his last name by all legal rights?"

"Yes, I knew that. It's Rose. Callum Quain Rose."

Nicholas knew an awful lot about Callum Quain Rose. Danny stirred uncomfortably, leaving his mobile on the end of the low table in front of the sofa. "Better get your shower."

"I'll save you some hot water."

"Nah, don't bother about that. You enjoy a good bathe. That'll make me happy enough. I'll make us tea and toast. So, should I bother with beans, or no?"

Nicholas got his other shoe untied. He collected the trainers together, eyeing Danny, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen in the last half of the cottage's main story. Danny had taken to the domestic side of living together, enjoying the cooking, the laundry, and sweeping off the steps almost every evening. Nicholas, meanwhile, had had trouble adjusting to living with someone else, even if that person was his better half in almost all purposes of the phrase. He did the cleaning, the hoovering, and the ironing that Danny didn't want to do. It'd always felt slightly unfair, though, this living together business, this being committed to one another without actually being committed to one another. Like something was missing. Like they were on the verge of finding out what it was and wouldn't be able to resuscitate their relationship when they did.

For now, however, Nicholas lifted his shoulders, giving a lavish validity to the stretch of his grin. "Yeah, sure—beans would be great."

"Beans it is, then."

Stirring beans in a pot on the hot hob, Danny couldn't quite forget how Callum Quain Rose was putting a damper on the nice homecoming he'd planned. Upstairs, under the hot stream of water, Nicholas was trying to forget Callum Quain, too, and not for reasons entirely different from Danny's.

-x-

News of the Pirate Festival spread like wildfire through the city. Prior to his taking a seat at the first meeting of leaders, Shawn had to sign a confidentiality agreement. Without an issue or a snarky remark, Shawn autographed it. Tim had a pretty good feeling that Shawn Spencer was a master of secret-keeping. If anything about the festival leaked out before the Council approved it, Tim knew it wouldn't be Shawn's doing. Shawn had no intention of telling anyone what he knew about it, but he wasn't able to keep everything a secret.

"You're on the festival board?" Hank signed enthusiastically. Whenever he became excited, his weird, green-hazel eyes twinkled as if full of fireflies. "Really? On the board?"

"I was asked," Shawn told him, hoping to downplay his involvement. "All we've done so far is order Chinese and bounce ideas off one another."

Which was only true for the first three meetings. Yes, Shawn ate a lot more takeaway Chinese than he had in the last year of his life, but once the board became more familiar with the characteristics of one another, the more their ideas started to come together, the more they meshed, and the bigger their vision for the festival became.

Shawn realized that he was rubbing elbows with some of the most powerful people in the county. It fazed him a little, especially at the beginning. He started to question why he was there, and why Tim Westcott had thought Shawn Spencer should be part of an elite conglomeration. If the council had had any spark of sense, they would've vetoed Tim Westcott's and Marty Samuelsson's (county secretary) induction vote. But they hadn't. In fact, many of them even seemed downright pleased to have one of their local "folk heroes" aboard.

Four meetings and two weeks later, Shawn continued to struggle with his place. He voiced his concerns to Gus when the two met for a late-night dinner.

"The Council of Tortuga," as Shawn called the board, "let me sit around, eat their cheese won-tons, and basically twiddle my thumbs for two hours while I listen to the rest of them talk. It's a little—well, dammit, I don't like it. If it wasn't for the fact that I think the festival could be so flipping cool, I'd offer my resignation. Although, at this point, I'm not so sure they'd take it."

"You need to step-up, Shawn," offered Gus.

"Like Channing Tatum, or—"

"Like Ryan Guzman."

"That's more like it! See how well you know me? You know, automatically, that I prefer _Step Up: Revolutions_ to the original, somewhat less imaginative _Step Up_. But that doesn't mean—"

"That Ryan Guzman replaces your man-crush on Channing Tatum. I know."

They were walking back to land from wharf's edge, a good place to chat about life's minuscule difficulties. If someone had told him, Burton Guster, a year ago that Shawn Spencer would be part of a delegation selected to revive one of the oldest street fairs in Santa Barbara history, Gus would've broken a rib laughing. On paper, the idea of Shawn's current position failed to match up against his array of odd jobs and life experiences. But even a year ago, Gus was just glad that his best friend had decided to come back to life after being so dead that he'd required a defibrillator to get his heart going again. With the memory of it, Gus smacked Shawn on the back, massaged his BFF's shoulder a bit.

"Just—be yourself. You know. You're good at that. Tim obviously asked you for a reason. Whenever I'm at one of those company retreats—the kind you hate—I always remember to play to my strengths. Bring to the table what you've got to bring, Shawn."

"I don't think they want my LP collection of Eighties Broadway musicals. Or did you mean something else? I have, like, every Midnight Oil album on LP. Maybe that'd be better."

"You've got a lot of talents, and you're a people person. You're more outgoing than a puppy. Find a way to use that. Offer to do some of the grunt work, make some phone calls, schmooze, Shawn. You're so good at schmoozing I'm officially attributing the word Schmooze as your middle name."

"And here, all these years, I was really hoping we'd mutually agree that Sassy should be my fake middle name. Or Shassie. So appropriate. Too on the nose?"

"Shawn," Gus said, using such a tone that Shawn knew what was expected of him.

"Yeah, all right—I'll try to play to my strengths better."

But bringing in some of the Eighties vinyls didn't hurt. When the Council of Tortuga members began to arrive in the meeting room at City Hall, Shawn wowed them with _Starlight Express_. After everyone had arrived, Shawn started the meeting—it was usually Marty's position to get the meetings in order, since he was secretary. But Marty didn't protest; he was actually smiling. Shawn quickly displayed the decorated foam boards he'd brought with them. Over the last five days, he'd been sketching ideas he had on the layout of the festival, the different parts of the city they could use for certain parts of the all-over-town event, even poster ideas, emblem ideas, pennant ideas. He was the first one to get to the meeting, and the last one to leave. All eleven members, Tim included, stopped to shake his hand and thank him for his presentation. Sheila Meadows, city accountant, couldn't remember the last time she'd been to a meeting that was so fun. Shawn was happy to hear it.

At the next conference, Shawn arrived in full pirate garb and played the Reliant K song "The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything" as intro music. Dario Cordero, the mayor, a fit and tall man with a mustache that must've been peeled right off Tom Selleck's upper lip, was there for the meeting's last fifteen minutes. At the end, he invited Shawn to make an appointment to see him the next day. "I'd like you to stop by and fill me in on what I missed today." Rather sure it wasn't a pass, Shawn made the appointment, went to it, and became the Council of Tortuga's mayoral liaison. He also spent a lot of time talking to the press, because he was affable, handsome, and thought quickly in live situations.

In a word, Shawn was busy.

On top of this, he still worked full-time at the Country Club, cleaning stalls, marking paperwork, spending time with horses. Even at the Club, Shawn wasn't safe from the news of the Festival. Jefferson Roberts, the head of Human Resources, visited the stables specifically to ask Shawn if it was true what he'd heard about the Pirate Festival being resurrected. Shawn only said that he'd heard that, too. Jefferson told Shawn to keep his secrets, but that if he needed any time off, he should let him or Tina Athens know.

Roberts wasn't the only one at the Country Club to ask him about the fair. His coworkers, including many he didn't know well, talked to him about it.

Even those rare instances, rarer now than they used to be, that Shawn went into the police station to see Lassie or his dad, though dad had cut his hours back tremendously since Shawn wasn't working cases so much anymore, Shawn heard people chatting about the fair.

"I think the whole town's gone pirate crazy," Shawn said to Carlton and his dad, the three of them going to have lunch at Cafe del Sol. It was a rare day off for Hank, then at home catching up on his homework while, more than likely, simultaneously committing stretches that made Shawn wince with envy and speculation. Funny that he used to be able to move like that, twenty years ago… "I'm going to get so, so super sick of pirates by the time the fair's over. If Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone were to come back from the dead and roam the Santa Barbara streets as zombie pirates, I would not be the slightest bit impressed."

"Wow," Carlton said, taking Shawn's hand and squeezing it, "that shows an utter devotion to hatred I didn't think you were capable of, honey."

"The older I get, Pooch, the more I realize that hatred is a viable asset. That's why Dad's so cranky all the time."

Henry wanted to say something snappish and foul against this—but, actually, Shawn wasn't so far from being right. It stung a little, he was so right. Shawn, who'd just turned thirty-nine, shouldn't be allowed to understand the boons of getting old. Henry let Shawn sit in the booth ahead of him, against the window. Lassiter sat across from them, their usual practice of taking seats. Not more than a few times had Henry dined in public with Shawn and Carlton, and only once since they'd become engaged in December, but he didn't find them so odd or embarrassing. There were definite benefits to Shawn's age and, for the most part, maturity and longevity with Lassiter, like public demonstrations of affection had somewhat lost their appeal. Henry had really only come to dinner to find out what Hank thought about Shawn's suddenly explosive schedule.

The subject made Shawn frown and itch the top of his head thoughtfully. There wasn't an easy answer. "You're forgetting that Hank's a tough kid," he started.

"That's such an easy answer," Henry replied, zooming his eyes to Carlton. "Got anything more to add?"

Carlton knew that Henry adored Hank. No doubt, Henry had assumed that Hank, however long he was with Carlton and Shawn, was the closest he'd ever get to having a grandchild.

Actually, prior to Hank's arrival at Sunberry Lane, Henry Spencer was fairly sure that Gus and Juliet's baby would be the closest he ever got to having a grandchild. Shawn, who'd never really grown up and who possessed a strategic inability to understand the necessity of responsibility, wouldn't have known what to do with a kid if he'd had one. Carlton's opinion on children wasn't one that Henry knew; his intuition had even failed to unearth clues for him. The family dynamic at home was one that Henry did understand, though. Shawn was the fun one, Carlton was the serious one. Shawn was the father-figure, and Carlton the loving matron. It worked for them—and Henry wasn't surprised by the natural bifurcation.

"Hank's so busy with school and dance he can barely see straight," Carlton started.

Shawn unwittingly snickered bubbles into his soda through the straw. He flashed a repressed look of humor to Lassie. Carlton's inherent emotionlessness didn't set off any of Henry's warning klaxons. They hadn't told Henry yet that Hank Ingelow had a boyfriend back in Missouri. But, ten months after Hank's arrival, and seeing Hank and Leighton together at Christmas, perhaps there was no need to tell Henry Spencer anything.

"Yeah, and?" goaded Henry. "He's still used to having you and Shawn around."

Carlton grasped where Henry meant to steer the conversation. "While Shawn's been at the meetings, I've been helping Hank with his homework and making sure everything gets done."

Shawn felt a little awful about this. But Carlton wasn't disturbed or angry at Shawn's busyness. Shawn had been at home a lot lately; and if he wasn't at home, he was at the stables, working. Since they'd agreed to provide foster care for Hank, Shawn had become even more of a homebody, even more domestic—still writing occasionally but not with the same enthusiasm. The boredom that'd threatened Shawn his whole life, that he'd outrun since the initiation of Psych, had finally caught up with him. But the one that Shawn hadn't really talked to about the meetings and his crazy schedule was Hank.

Shawn, usually working on Saturdays, took the day off and spent what he could of it with Hank. It was just as well that Shawn wasn't bashful about approaching taboo subjects, such as asking Hank for his feelings about things at the house lately, asking him to be blunt regarding his current opinions him and Carlton. Hank was perfectly capable of candor.

As the two sat on the back patio with a brunch they'd prepared, Hank told Shawn what he wanted to know. He said all the things that Shawn had been feeling about himself the last few months, about being bored, losing interest in writing, not having the interest any longer in pursuing police cases as a consultant, or as a private detective. "The Council of Tortuga is good for you," was Hank's conclusion. "You should do it. And enjoy it. The more you enjoy something, the better you are at it."

God, Hank was a marvelous kid, Shawn thought.

Shawn was still on the patio when Hank took his empty plate inside, came out again with his backpack and a hug for Shawn. Hank had promised himself that he'd never be too old to hug Shawn or Carlton. "I'm leaving," he signed. "Robbie's parents are picking me up in a few minutes. We're going to practice our solos for the performance next Friday. Remember?"

"I didn't forget," Shawn answered, smiling derisively. He hadn't grown so forgetful and preoccupied yet that he'd misplaced the time and date of Hank's first performance with fellow students at Gustafson Dance. After that, Hank would be auditioning for the Summer Intensive program, a serious course of study for the seriously-minded dancer. That was Hank, though. His 85% aural deafness didn't maim his stunning talent, not as much as some would've thought. He had a genius for it, for one thing; a natural talent blended with an unprecedented sense of rhythm: he could count beats in his head. Shawn was still getting used to Hank in his life—their life—but to have a kid who surmounted difficulties and had an unbelievable, visible talent, it made Shawn's chest ache with pride. He grabbed Hank and smooched him loudly on the cheek, Hank swatting him away facetiously.

Robbie hadn't been dancing as long as Hank, only the last year, but the two boys continued to learn from one another, both in dancing and friendship. Hank had been hesitant to make friends at first, and he still didn't have very many "bosom buddies" at school, but he had his dance friends. For a kid who'd seen his family blasted apart by the death of his mother, Hank was doing all right. He'd finally stopped thinking that Shawn and Carlton were going to send him back to Missouri. The only one to take care of him there was his mother's cousin, and she and her husband already had four kids, none of whom Hank knew particularly well, and none knew Sign Language. Once Shawn and Carlton had contacted the cousin through a lawyer, and all was straightened out, Hank relaxed. He wasn't going to be sent away. That's when he started making friends.

At some point, Shawn supposed the comfort they'd established would dissipate, whenever Nina Grayson or Zack Ingelow was up for parole. Shawn didn't know when that was, didn't even want to know for the fear of what it'd do to him. Carlton kept tabs on the prison careers of Grayson and Ingelow, Shawn knew—but never asked. Hank had never once said that he'd like to see his dad and grandmother. Dad and grandmother had never tried to contact him.

And, at some point, Shawn supposed that ballet was going to become more important to Hank than a standard school. He was only a few years away from eligibility at a ballet company academy. Scary thought—yet a highly gratifying one. Especially after Hank's ballet teacher told Hank's foster parents exactly how "exceptional" Hank was. Shawn couldn't even bring himself to think that far ahead. It might not be their place to think that far ahead. But he so, so wanted it to be.

It was one of those days that he was glad to mosey back into the stables. The first stop he made was to find Atlanta Morrissey. She was in the outdoor arena, assisting one of the riding instructors.

"Hey, Shawn," said the chipper UCSB undergrad. She was always happy to see him. Whatever he was, psychic detective or not, Atlanta always thought Shawn played "country" very well. He usually showed up at work in his jeans, cowboy boots, white t-shirt previously stained by horse snot, and a wide-brimmed black hat. He had the airs of a movie rogue and the work ethic of a hero. "So, you hear about the Pirate Festival? I'm so, so excited about it! My brother's even thinking of coming down from Sacramento to go!"

Shawn was getting the idea that this Pirate Festival thing was going to be way, way bigger than the whole Council of Tortuga had predicted.

"We're going to need a bigger barque," he quipped as his opening line at the next meeting.


End file.
